Artificer
by Wovenstorm
Summary: AU; a Harry that started to take life more seriously after the Chamber of Secrets finds himself facing the Triwizard Tournament, alone and friendless. A Harry-doesn't-give-a-damn 4th year story.
1. Chapter 1

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Not exactly what I had planned for my first work of fanfiction, but we all have to start somewhere, right? This will be a short (~10 chapters at ~3k works) fic, and will likely be free of pairings, horcruxes and hallows. Till then, Slightly AU.

**Chapter 1**

Professor Binns' History of Magic class has long been known for its almost unending commentary of the Goblin wars, Giant wars and the tensions of wizard-muggle relations in the fifteenth century. On the rare occasion the work is based on the life of a great and powerful witch or wizard, it always seems oddly incomplete, not that anyone notices. Rolls and rolls of parchment can be filled with the actions of these greats; the things they achieved with their notoriety and power; for example, the four founders of Hogwarts were all powerful, influential and charismatic mages, they founded a magical school that endured for a thousand years and set the standard for teaching young people how to harness their power and skills. But who were they beforehand? What were their experiences in life? What drove them, moulded them into the legends we know them as today? When did these relative unknowns rise up, and become the world renowned figures they are today?

Closer to the present, everyone knows Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the most enduring school of magic in the world, Chief Warlock of the British magical courts, Head Mugwump of the international confederation of wizards. The single most politically powerful wizard in the world, known for his apprentiship under the notoriously reclusive Flamels and the resulting uses of dragon's blood, and for the actions he took in the war against Grindlewald's forces and the eventual defeat of Grindlewald himself. He went on to lead a specialist force in the defence against Voldemort's terror tactics, holding the darkness at bay until the events that cost my parents' lives and saved the Wizarding world. But who was he as a child? How did he attract Flamel's attention in the first place? Who were his family, his friends?

Grindlewald was an idealist. In a few short years he united half of magical Europe under the banner of the greater good, pushing for magical supremacy and an age of co-operation and enlightenment. On the other hand he was callous and immoral, ordering the deaths of hundreds of thousands of the unworthy, of the halfbreeds, of the rebels. Was he always like this? As a child did he dream of a world where might is right, and where everyone is united in a common purpose? Was he born a dark lord, or did circumstances make him into the person he became?

About a year and a half ago, I learned that the most feared wizard in modern times, the self-titled 'Dark Lord Voldemort', commonly known as 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' or most casually, 'You-Know-Who' to the fearful masses once went by another name, one not tied down by the fear of the first war's Taboo. Not an honoured pureblood name, not even a classy Latin one. Over fifty years ago and at the age of sixteen, Voldemort was known as one Tom Marvolo Riddle. If you read any books that mention the Dark Lord, Voldemort became known and feared in the early seventies when he and his marked followers began their campaign of terror that lasted just short of a decade.

No-one knows anything of his childhood, no-one knows he was terrified of going back to the orphanage where he lived, and no-one knows he was a respected prefect. No-one knows that his first kill was a girl called Myrtle at the young age of sixteen.

Had his upbringing been different, would history have changed?

Ollivander once told me, on the day I got my wand, that Voldemort did great things. Dark things, evil things maybe, but those actions still changed history. He was powerful, he was influential, and as such he was great. Before that day I used to think 'Great' was synonymous with 'Good', but childish ideology changes. The Founders, Dumbledore, Grindlewald and Voldemort; they were all great in their own ways, and yet history will never remember how they came to be the forces of nature they are.

On Halloween night of 1981, a new name was added to the list of great witches in wizards known the world over. Was the name James Potter, who bravely duelled the Dark Lord to a standstill to give his wife and child time to escape? Was the name Lily Potter, who in her last moments conferred a powerful protection onto her son by sacrificing her life out of love for him? No. On the fateful night one name was toasted up and down the country as people celebrated the end of those dark times.

They raised their glasses to Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

At the age of one, I had survived the unsurvivable killing curse with nothing but a scar from the spell that kills without leaving a mark. With this my name entered the history books alongside those that actually fought, who knew there was a war and gave everything to stop it. Even now, a good thirteen years later my fame from that night influences people, even if I had nothing to do with it.

Even if my only fame is that I survived.

The world sees me as one of those Great wizards, but as far as most are aware, I've done nothing in those past thirteen years to earn it. If you listen to the gossip in Hogwarts, you will hear how I fearlessly tackled a mountain troll to save a cowering first year student, how I duel challengers at the stroke of midnight and smuggle dragons out of the school. How I lead two of my brave friends in the defence of a priceless artefact that was being stored in the school, and that I protected everyone from a wraith-possessed teacher.

Then you'll hear how I bravely confronted the heir of Slytherin after he and his monster started attacking the school and kidnapped a young child, and how I slew him and his beast with nothing but a sword.

Then you'll hear how I stood firm as hundreds of Dementors broke the leash of the ministry and moved to attack the school, and how I drove all of them of with but a single charm.

All of these rumours are true, but they cannot be proved after all. Should the public discover that Voldemort is still in our world and was able to possess a teacher, enter Hogwarts and fool Albus Dumbledore himself, there would be widespread panic. If the public were to find out that Ginny Weasley was opening the chamber of secrets and attacking the muggleborns of the school, the Weasley family would become pariahs, shunned for endangering Britain's children. If the public were to find out that the ministry cannot fully control the jailers of Azkaban, there would be riots as the people live in fear not only of the soul-eating wraiths, but the prisoners they are supposedly guarding.

No, no-one can know of my legend, for, if I may borrow a phrase, the greater good.

Of course all of these rumours go both ways. With careful use of listening and eavesdropping charms, the huddled groups in the library and the corners of the common rooms often tell slightly different tales; more often these days than in the past. You might hear the story of how Harry Potter lured poor, stuttering Professor Quirrel to the forbidden third floor corridor, and left him to be savaged by a Cerberus that was stationed there; how he claimed the 'credit' for protecting the school. Or you might hear the tale of how Harry Potter lured his fellow student into the forbidden forest in an attempt to leave him in sacrifice to the acromantula colony there so they could be encouraged to attack the school. Or even better, how he was caught in the middle of a ritual by Lockheart, trying to sacrifice Ginny Weasley's life in order to raise Salazar Slytherin from the grave.

If I still bothered to listen, I'd be willing to bet there are rumours that last year I was using Sirius Black to get in touch with a group of evil minions so I could become the new dark lord.

All these rumours, all the lies, all the half truths.

I may not be able to clear my name of any of them, but I can start something new. I can do something that cannot be denied, and I can start getting people to see **me**, not as the boy who lived, not as dark lord potter, but the Harry James Potter they raised up on a pedestal that night and forgot to take down.

Which is why I've decided that today, I'll make a name for myself once and for all.

* * *

"By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real…"

The hall grew once again silent as the fire in the goblet once again turned red. Timed slowed as it is wont to do, in those life defining moments where something is going to happen, something that will change everything.

"Harry Potter."

Something that should never have happened.

* * *

In the beginning, when I first found out that I was forced to compete in this tournament, I was understandably angry. One spurt of flame, one fragment of parchment and one announcement was all it took to confirm that once again someone seeks my demise, and this time to turn the entire school against me.

If anything, I was angry at the timing. If the tournament had been the year previous I might have found myself supported by my friends; Hermione would have made sure I was fine and keep me focused on surviving by organising a training schedule, researching in the library, making sure I was eating properly. Ron would have kept my mind off things through inane Quidditch conversations, by encouraging me to take time to relax, and supply quite random insights into problems we otherwise couldn't solve. Neville would continue to stay unnoticed, but still offer useful advice and prevent the other's bickering from turning into a heated argument.

In truth, my heart yearns that things could have been that was this year too.

Even now, right before my curtain call, my grand entrance, I entertain some of the ideas that in a perfect world might have been made by my old friends. In my daydreams, we sit around one of the tables in the common room, talking as friends tend to do, and Ron makes his predictable comments about Quidditch. I sigh, and say that it would be a lot easier if I could play to my strength as it were and take a broom, instead of the wand which the rules state may be my only tool in the first task. Hermione would know from her reading ahead that the summoning charm could be used in order to get my broom from the castle during the task, and Neville would mention that I'd need to practise for weeks to become proficient at it.

Out-flying a dragon! That would certainly add to the only legend I've truly earned, as the 'Youngest seeker in a century'. It's almost a shame that I don't honestly care for Quidditch, as the idea is probably quite a good one. Unfortunately I can't summon anything heavier than a book for more than ten feet.

Coming back to reality, I shake my head. Perhaps had it been more than a daydream, I'd be leaving this tent to a small group of supporters that would cheer me on regardless, in victory or defeat.

I run over the plan I've been crafting for the last fortnight, the transfiguration, charms, runes and arithmancy that I painstakingly crafted together for the sole purpose of defeating a dragon. It stands to reason that this isn't classroom variety magic; Numerology isn't going to help me predict the horntail's movements, there are no porcupines around on the slim chance that dragons are terrified of pincushions, a levitation charm is unlikely to be able to best a dragon even if it _can_ stun a troll, and no amount of knowledge of ancient languages is going to help; not that I haven't considered it.

The so-called gift of parceltongue is hereditary, so it stands to reason that no-one outside of the Slytherin line has any knowledge of what it's fully capable of. Since the last descendant of the line was Voldemort, there's little chance that I'll ever be able to learn anything about it, which leaves me with a problem. Do dragons understand parceltongue? They are highly magical creatures after all, and being related to snakes it stands to reason that they might.

But then again, I already have a plan, and proof that dragons are intelligent and capable of communication is only going to make my job harder. If the Basilisk wasn't trying to kill me, I doubt I would have even been able to kill it, even though I swore to.

Running over my plan in my mind, I distract myself thinking of my course choices. I wonder would things have come to this had I not elected to take runes and arithmancy both? Ron wanted me to take divination so we would have an extra free period and the easy lessons, but I knew I couldn't continue to be lazy. Hermione was singing the praises of these two subjects, and her opinion that they're important was good enough for me at the time.

Maybe if I had just told him sooner? Maybe if we hadn't grown apart so much Ron wouldn't have blown up over this whole tournament fiasco to the point where even Griffindors can't stand the sight of me. With what I know now I know I could never have given up this for divination, but what I would give to at least have a quarter of the people out there watching on my side, hoping for an outcome where I don't become a snack.

Ah, it looks like my turn is up. In hindsight it works out well that I'm the last champion, as this way the other three don't have to sit around and wait for me for almost an hour. Win or fail, I'll have some sort of victory at least. I can't promise my plan is particularly exiting, death defying, or fun to watch, but it'll be worth it at the end; far better than the standard plan of walking in with nothing but a wand, and trying to steal an egg from a nesting mother without being killed.

Whoever decided this challenge should be a surprise deserves the bill for this one.

True to my predictions, the crowd boo loudly. It's not the disappointed boos from when a chaser misses a penalty that would net them a game, nor the comic ones you might hear directed at the bad guys in a childhood pantomime. As far as this crowd is concerned, I don't deserve to be here. Not in the arena, not in the Triwizard tournament, not in this school. All I'm doing is stealing the attention, money and fame from the three champions that are here by right, who were selected from the best of their schools. I look towards where the Griffindor crowd is sat with a small part of me holding out in hope that maybe some of them are supporting me, are cheering me on.

That hope dies when I see Ron's trademark red hair and angry red face. While he's calling for my blood, Hermione, Beautiful Hermione is sat up against him, pointedly looking away from me, from the dragon. Some of the lions are looking almost uncomfortable, maybe these few at least now believe my claims that I didn't enter myself into the tournament. That someone else entered me without my knowledge. That someone, that someone might be out to kill me this year.

Their guilt now isn't going to help me forgive them. They had plenty of time to help me survive this, now it's too late.

Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical games and Sports announces my name to the sound of more jeers and angry yells. The man has been nothing but nice to me since this whole fiasco began, though I discovered that he's bet virtually all of his life saving on me winning this tournament. Supposedly he has gambling debts with the goblins, and my victory this year will help him a long way towards keeping his head.

He's been nice to me so far, so the least I can do is to help him. I was planning on winning anyway.

The Gambling in the student population seems to have me at rather long odds, if the listening charms I placed where the twins handle all the money are telling the truth. I'd be willing to bet that the odds would be shorter if a certain trio of redheads weren't going out of their way to threaten anyone who tries to help me though. Not that I need the help, but some human company would have been nice; house elves can only hold a conversation for so long.

But if those charms are to be believed, the odds of me coming away from this first task in one piece and with an egg is a comfortable 35-1. I managed to place a bet of one galleon on myself with the help of an odd fourth year Ravenclaw, in exchange for showing her where the kitchen is. I don't even know if I look forward to bankrupting the twins more than the possibility of human company during meals.

Ah, Bagman's announced the start of the task. I pull my wand from my sleeve and begin.

Walking as far as possible from the dragon, I cast a simple silencing charm over myself to muffle the sounds of the crowd and commentary, not to mention the dragon's hungry roars. It was almost by accident that one of my charms picked up that the dragon handlers were instructed not to feeds the dragons for two days before the task to make things, and I quote, "More exiting". Then again a well fed dragon is a sleeping dragon, so they may have a point.

And as the schools motto warns us not to tickle sleeping dragons, maybe it's better that she's awake for this. Awake, I have a far higher chance of being spared it's anger.

Odd creatures, dragons.

The second charm is for my glasses. An entry level cursebreaker's tool, it lets you 'see' an object's magic at the cost of being able to see any further than a few feet. While it's almost useless for anything beyond training in cursebreaking, I'll need it to make up for inexperience; there are some things fourteen year olds just shouldn't be trying to do.

Things such as facing a dragon.

I only managed to find this charm while reading about the fabled skill of 'Mage sight', the ability to see magic. It's a matter of legends, as everyone seems to have heard of it, yet no-one can actually use it. Or ever has used it, for that matter. If I'm still alive this time next year, researching it'll be something to keep me occupied, I suppose.

The third charm I cast inside my small bubble of silence. A magical metronome, it'll keep me from losing track of time while I work, with a chime every minute. From now, I hope to be finished in a little under an hour.

Over the top of my glasses, I glance up at where Hermione is sat. I wonder what the brown blur would think if she realised that she inspired this plan, from an idea she had a long time ago? It's a shame we never continued that conversation, though it was going nowhere after she simply started quoting _Hogwarts: A History_ at me. I hate that book with a passion, if only for the number of things it simply dismisses without reason.

But I'm sure she'll recall that she told me that the astronomy tower's telescopes contain a space expansion charm to increase the magnification.

I'm sure she'll remember the list of muggle ideas with magical solutions we put together last year.

Smiling inwardly, I find a suitable stone, and levitate it over to me. As the first chime rings, I begin the transfiguration that makes for the first step in my plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: I was going to hold off on the new chapter till tomorrow, but since people have been nice enough to follow and favourite, you get it early :D. That said, it's been a long time since I've done any large amount of writing, so I imagine typos and similar will be popping up here and there until I get into a comfortable proof-reading schedule. So apologies in advance for that.

This chapter jumps around a lot. Be warned.

**Chapter 2**

Smiling inwardly, I find a suitable stone, and levitate it over to me. As the first chime rings, I begin the transfiguration that makes for the first step in my plan.

* * *

Petrified.

I sat with her, hands wrapped around her stone-like fist. She couldn't feel me, couldn't hear me, she was…

Not dead. Almost dead, but not…not dead. She had known what was making the attacks, and still she went and risked facing it. It knew she knew. It must have.

Inwardly I swore. I didn't know what was doing this, what was attacking people, but I would stop it. Somehow, I would end this.

I wanted to tell her it would be alright, that I would get whoever did this to her, but she wouldn't hear the words.

I wanted to squeeze her hand in support, to let her know I was there for her, but her hand was unyielding.

If she could hear, if she could feel, would I tell her?

I never had many friends, and now I had almost lost one of them.

But I couldn't say I had almost lost the most important one.

I swore. Somehow I would make things right. Somehow I would find out who did this. Somehow I would make sure they would never be able to do this again.

* * *

Pain. Searing pain.

A corner of my mind, unsubdued by the pain in my arm and venom in my blood was howling in victory. A stone's throw from death, but in the end I did it.

In a moment where time stretches out, the phoenix was there. In a delirium of pain I said something, and it flew down and rested its head on my arm.

I did it. Hermione will be proud.

Tom's apparition was gloating, I replied without care. The chamber was open, and Ron was on the other side of the entrance. The monster was dead and the school safe, and sooner or later the teachers would be here to save Ginny. Maybe Dumbledore could come back now?

The world around me was hazy, but refused to go black and silent. Slow and painful deaths are annoyingly...slow.

"Get away bird. Get away from him! I said get away-"

Tom's irritatingly handsome voice was too loud. I'd won. I got vengeance, can't I finally rest? I raise my head enough to see tom jab a wand at Fawkes, and some something about healing powers.

Healing powers.

Slowly, slowly the world came back into focus. It seems my fight wasn't over yet.

I glance over at the fang that was moments away from claiming my life. Would Tom, no, would Voldemort be as irritated by someone's monologue while slowly dying of basilisk venom?

Voldemort, Tom raised my wand as Fawkes flew by, dropping something onto my lap.

Tom Riddle's diary. Voldemort's Diary. Voldemort.

Of course.

The fang tore through it with ease. The diary had controlled Ginny. Voldemort had controlled Ginny. They had ordered the basilisk to attack students. They had ordered the basilisk to attack Hermione.

Time sped back up as the diary and Riddle both screamed.

The fight was over. I won.

* * *

My heart ached seeing her.

"You solved it, you solved it!"

I wanted to tell her why I did it, I wanted to tell her what I was thinking what I was feeling. I wanted to tell her why I fought, why I solved it, why I fought and won. When she stopped hugging me, I moved to tell her something, anything, but now a Hufflepuff was in front of me, apologising, and Ron was hugging Hermione.

The moment passed.

* * *

The countryside blurred past as I looked out of the window of the Hogwarts express. I wonder, is now is a good time to tell him?

"_Sorry Ron, but I'm not taking divination next year. Instead I'll be taking runes and arithmancy, real subjects. Sorry." _

When I had talked to professor McGonagall this morning, she was as close to ecstatic as I had ever seen her. It turns out she doesn't believe in divination; though whether in the subject itself, or the ability to teach it she didn't specify.

When she asked me what caused my change of heart, I told her that I didn't think I'd survive school if I didn't start paying attention and doing the work. Both of us sobered up quickly after that.

"_Ron mate? You know how I keep almost dying? Well, I've decided that instead of sleeping through lessons and avoiding homework, I'm going to start learning magic properly. So I'm not going to have as much time to hang out, or play chess anymore. Sorry."_

At times like this, I regret never really having friends. I know I sound insensitive, but I don't know any other ways to tell him.

I'm not sure it matters.

I was never able to tell Hermione about the chamber. As time went on, the words I rehearsed in my mind sounded like I really didn't care if Ginny was down there, that I was only there to avenge my best friend.

I'm not good at these things.

As the train pulls into the station, Hermione gives me her phone number. I doubt I'll be allowed to use the phone, but it's a nice thing to have. As she turns to leave, I look at Ron and guilt wells up in my chest. I'll just tell him next year.

"_Sorry."_

* * *

The sixth chime sounded as I finished the first transfiguration. If this had been a standard classroom transfiguration, I could have just used a charm and it would have been finished in a matter of seconds, but it isn't. Instead of turning the rubble into a raccoon, it is now…a flat rock.

I imagine the crowd are distinctly nonplussed at my creation.

I take a quick breather as the charm on my glasses confirms my success. Classroom transfiguration at our current level is quick and easy to learn, but this is a whole different matter. In our first ever lesson, we were given a matchstick to turn into a needle. No wand motions, no incantations, just the application of intent, visualisation and power.

A surprisingly valuable lesson, even if it took three years for me to figure out its significance.

Most transfigurations wear off. The charm breaks down after a time, and your raccoon will revert into rubble. That isn't the case with this, NEWT level, free transfiguration. The charms we're taught take the place of intent and power, allowing younger students to actually achieve something; which is why this took me all of five minutes.

My glasses show the magic has faded and the transfiguration held. Perfect.

Academically, the next bit is easy. I've spent over a week memorising the patterns, the meanings of the patterns, and the individual runes that make them up. This is also one of the reasons I have a silencing charm up.

I really don't want to hear people's reactions to this.

Hogwarts has the single greatest Ancient Runes course available practically anywhere, but which most people don't see as much of a distinction as it is 'just a language class'. Of course, wizards are rarely able to see the wood for the trees.

Looking up at the teacher's seats, I'm surprised the runes professor isn't here. The other faces seem to be split between horror and curiosity, which is what I expected. After all, Ancient runes is required for a few different appentiships out of Hogwarts, in subjects like cursebreaking.

Or in this case, Enchanting, The practise of etching runes into a material, priming them, tying charms to them and charging them, all to make a magical artefact. It's a very lucrative business to go into, since there are very few master enchanters available.

There would be more if it were less of a volatile practise, as mistakes tend to lead to things exploding.

Looking down at my flat rock, now an inch thick tablet exactly two feet long and four feet wide, I slowly transfigure the surface to etch the runes in place. Did you know that the Romans sometimes enchanted ballistae to throw bolts far faster than any amount or torsion could manage?

The fear coming from the teaching stands is almost tangible. The thirteenth chime sounds and I refocus.

* * *

It's not very often I get to spend any time in privet drive alone, but I always try to make the most of it. Take Dudley's games console for example. For all he likes the shoot 'em up's and action games, he also has a nice collection of virtually untouched RPGs; despite his parent's abhorrence of anything even linked to magic.

So of course I give one a go.

Ever since I pulled Godric's sword out of the hat, I've wondered about magical artefacts. Who makes them? Could I? Killing another goblin with a fiery sword and evading an attack thanks to a magical cape my mind goes into overdrive.

* * *

Diagon alley was a nice place, if a busy one. Easy access to ice cream and books, not to mention money for the both of them made this one the best summers I'd ever experienced.

The only cloud in the bright blue sky of my life was the Hogsmead permission slip.

When I first got it, I was excited about visiting a Wizarding village and seeing how people with magic live as a community. A small part of my mind hoped I could talk to random people and get quests, but that part of my mind was quickly silenced by the bit governed by hormones.

I thought of the time I could spend there with Hermione.

I didn't have a good childhood by anyone's standards, but I knew enough to guess what I had been feeling recently. That part of my mind knew that I'd justified killing a thousand year old basilisk for her, and the ghost? Shade? Whatever it was, that was gone too. My mind said I did it for her.

Maybe part of me wanted to save Ron's sister too.

Ron.

He's going to want to go to Hogsmead too. And I don't have a signed form. Hopefully one of the teachers in the castle will give me permission; they know what my guardians are like.

Asking Hermione to go to Hogsmead with me should be perfect.

* * *

The twenty-first chime sounds shortly after I finish the first side of the tablet.

As I watch the glow of magic slowly drain from the tablet leaving my runes in place, part of me feels sorry for this crowd. The other champions must have been far more exiting than this, and even then they would have the egg by now. Instead they're watching a fourteen year old slowly carve patterns into a rock.

Serves them right for watching a blood sport I suppose.

I wonder if there are any enchanters or cursebreakers in the crowd right now. If any of them have good enough eyesight to see what I've done, they're probably debating whether the wards keeping everyone safe from the dragon will be able to hold the blast in; this design as it stands is a recipe for disaster. Thankfully the prototypes worked perfectly.

Smiling, I recast the silencing charm as I turn over the tablet. No need to risk being distracted while I work, is there? After all, you're not _supposed_ to carve two completely different runic patterns onto opposite sides of a stone tablet. Some might call it dangerous.

Runes for strength, lightening and heat are far from the most volatile runes in the world.

As I start the next round of engraving, my mind wanders again at the twenty-seventh chime.

* * *

If I ever want to avoid a date with somebody, I'll arrange to have a serial killer out for my blood. Since I didn't want to avoid it, it's just plain annoying.

Sirius Black.

Professor McGonagall at least looked sorry seeing my downturned face, and I suppose she had good reason to deny my request – the right hand of Voldemort isn't the kind of man you want to be at risk from - or known to be at risk from anyway.

The twins being kind enough to give me a map of Hogwarts has led to me, map and cloak in hand, steadily making my way down a dark passage to Hogsmead, with no-one any the wiser. I was almost surprised at their generosity; I haven't been on great terms with Ron ever since I forgot to tell him about divination and ended up going to runes alone. For some reason Hermione isn't in my runes class, even though she's taking the lesson. Annoying, but I suppose the learning is the important part; her timetable is confusing enough as it is.

I'm glad I have a route to Hogsmead, but it's a long walk there and back and Hermione will probably be angry at me putting myself in danger, but it's not like there is anything to do in the castle while she's in the village.

With Ron.

I'm sure things work out between me and him; after all he was my first friend. I just need to avoid getting caught taking risks by Black before Black is caught himself.

* * *

Hermione went in the wrong direction after class today, but when I went to follow she was gone. Then I saw her coming out of the runes classroom…I'm sure it's nothing.

* * *

A Firebolt!

I had wondered who would send me it, and after I came down from my high (It's a bloody Firebolt!) Hermione's suspicion makes a lot of sense. Not that I'm able to say so before Mount Ron blows up.

Midwinter's a horrible time to be flying anyway; I can do without it for a few weeks at least.

But what am I supposed to say now? If I agree with Ron, Hermione will be hurt and it'll be first year all over again. If I support Hermione, Ron will get even angrier and I'd risk that friendship as well. Ron might not be quite as important to me, but I still only have two close friends, I can't risk either of them.

It's bad enough that Hermione is looking tired almost constantly and still disappearing at the oddest times, but she also seems driven to save Buckbeak. My idea was to free it into the forest with the rest of the hippogriffs, but she's worried Hagrid will be blamed for that as well. I suppose after he went to Azkaban last year, he isn't going to be in a hurry to risk going back.

Not it that's where those Dementors really live. Foul things.

I hope Ron and Hermione work this out. Their normal bickering is bad enough as it is.

I return to my studies: A beginner's guide to enchanting.

* * *

The thirty-fifth chime sounds as I catch my breath once again.

Half an hour of watching as a boy carves a rock! The less educated in the crowd are probably getting pretty angry at the lack of blood and fire.

The next step is no more exiting; drawing my focus together, I start rolling the slab into a tube and sealing the end. Part of me wonders how many people have figured it out yet.

* * *

I know there's something off with her timetable but my mind just won't focus!

Arithmancy let us out early, so I decided I would go chase down Ron for a game of chess while she headed off to the library. And yet in one of the classrooms on the way to the common room, there she is. With Ron.

I consider going in, asking how she can be here and the library at the same time by my mind…I find myself in the common room. I may as well get some reading done till Hermione gets out of her runes class.

…what?

* * *

The Thirty-ninth chime sounds.

Rune carving is a lot like transfiguration in a way. Anyone can grab a wand or chisel and carve them, but it takes a certain focus and familiarity to get them to do anything. I begin murmuring the chant which primes the runes, turning them from a simple design in the rock into meaningful magical conduits. This is the point where a rune that means both 'Flame' and 'Light' Settles down to do one thing and one thing only. It doesn't take long, but when I'm done I have beads of sweat dripping down my neck, as if I have a dragon breathing down my neck.

It doesn't matter that I literally do.

The previously unfinished pattern glows softly to my eye, as the runic clusters spiral around and around the tube. For a fourth year to get this far is an accomplishment, but anyone with a working knowledge of runes in the crowd would know that what I am holding at the moment is at best a dud. Good thing it's still not ready.

I peer over the top of my glasses towards the judge's table. Dumbledore if no-one else is going to be worried after my next move.

The problem with runes is that, once primed, they take on a life of their own. Living things and magical objects generate a resisting force against anything that tries to change them. Oddly enough, an entire branch of magic was created to counteract this. While in a thousand years the name hasn't changed, the meaning has.

Dark magic.

The origin of the name is confusing at best. It was in the search for 'Mage sight' that I found what I think is the most reasonable explanation. Supposedly, by virtue of how dark magic utilises the ambient magic or the magic of its target in order to create its effect, any magic detection causes dark magic to show up as a 'dark spot'.

It sounds far more convincing than the more general 'Dark magic is evil' explanation.

Literally designed to overcome the resistance to magical change, dark magic is the only thing that works to manipulate an enchanted object once it's created. Thankfully a millennium of…creative use has created a spell for every occasion.

"_extorqueo_"

A torture cure, designed to twist a limb repeatedly till someone's forearm or similar protrusion resembles nothing more than a twisted mass of flesh. Used on an inanimate object, it's capable of twisting something in a perfectly uniform manner almost indefinitely, and can only be reversed with the spell's specific counter-curse.

I count thirteen turns, by which point the tube is almost seven feet long with a two inch wide hole in the middle.

The runes held, having been primed before using the curse. I dispel the charm on my glasses having confirmed everything is in working order. I quickly glance around at the sea of faces before the final step begins; with a slow melodious chant, I begin charging my creation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I'll announce that, as of right now, I will _not_ be posting semi-random spoilers in my notes; if you want to know what happens next, you'll have to keep reading :) I'll be kind enough to mention some things that will definitely **not** be happening though, such as a Harry/Ginny pairing. Ginny didn't exist till book five anyway, amirite?

More jumping, but only for this chapter; the rest of the fic should be fairly linear.

**Chapter 3  
**

With a slow melodious chant, I begin charging my creation.

* * *

Scabbers lives!

Even if there's nothing more we can do for Buckbeak, at least Ron and Hermione might make peace with each other now; the row they had over Crookshanks eating the old rat was huge, and I've barely seen them talk since.

Although I can remember seeing them together loads of times recently.

I feel my mind pull away from that line of thought against my will, after all, they've been nothing but hostile recently, right?

The way my mind changes direction reminds me of the Dementors for the few moments before all is well again, and everything makes sense again.

* * *

"What did you do? You said you were only going to keep a lookout!"

Internally, I flinch at Hermione's tone. I look back at the still-corporeal patronus, my patronus standing at the lake's edge.

"Everyone always tells me I look like my father…" I started. The scene was beautiful, the full moon reflecting off the still waters. The ghostly glow of the stag gave the night a peaceful quality despite how close we came to becoming soulless husks a few moments ago, a few hours ago.

"I just saved our lives," I begin again. "It was me casting that patronus; it was me that looked like my father on the far bank."

I turn towards our fallen forms, where Snape began shifting. Perhaps it was exhaustion catching up to me as my tone grew hard and my patronus flickered out.

"But I didn't know of the time-turner then, did I? Quite a big secret for you to be keeping from us all year, isn't it? Even from your best friends?"

At least it explained why I couldn't figure out her timetable all year. But with that thought, images came rushing back. Thoughts and fragments my mind had forcefully ignored.

"He knew." Quietly, coldly the words fell from my lips.

How long? As far as I had seen, they had not once made peace over their fights this year, leaving me to act as a go between at all times when they wouldn't spare a word for the other. How long were they secretly meeting outside of time?

Snape was binding and levitating the bodies on the far bank, doubtlessly anticipating the rewards of being the man who captured the 'Murderer', Sirius Black.

Hermione stays silent. Did I put the shattered pieces of a hundred thoughts together correctly? Has she done anything wrong? She hasn't moved to confirm or deny anything yet. I speak again,

"I've wanted to tell you something for a year now, but I've never been able to find the right _time_."

The last word rolls off my tongue slowly, as if I am unfamiliar with it. I suppose that in the end, I am.

"Harry, stop. Harry…"

Part of me didn't want to hear her next words, even if they were her first.

"I'm sorry." Those words. _"I'm sorry."_

"Ron and I, we…during the first Hogsmead weekend, he said he liked me."

He said he liked her. Why didn't I ever say that?

"We were going to tell you, but then you got angry over the broomstick at Christmas and…and…"

I got angry? I remember Ron yelling, I remember Hermione crying, but when was I angry about it?

"…Ron thought it would be a good idea if we kept it quiet. We're not dating yet, but we want to see where things will go?"

I had started walking to where Snape had taken our unconscious forms from, my mind racing as the world slowed to a crawl. I was in the chamber again, pain numbing my thoughts and my blood burning in my veins.

"Harry, wait! Where are you going? Why are you angry?"

Angry? I'm irritated. I defeated the basilisk, the Dementors, and now I just want my peace. Is it so much to ask? To not lie, listening to a monologue as I feel myself decay from the inside?

"Harry? What's wrong! Harry!"

Fawkes laid it's head on my arm, the healing balm of its tears slowly soaking into my wounds.

"Harry, we have to save Sirius!"

Sirius. My godfather. Healing powers.

The world comes back to me as I stand on frosted grass, the empty cloaks of a few Dementors scattered at my feet. The spoils of victory. But after the basilisk, I had to fight again, to save Ginny.

This time it's to save Sirius.

"Ok." I pass her my cloak as I pick up the ones at my feet. "Just…wait at the entrance hall. and I'll take Buckbeak to the tower to save Sirius." My voice regained some warmth at the last word.

She stood staring.

"Go!"

She backs away, and starts running up to the castle as she vanished from sight.

* * *

The fifty-first chime broke me from my memories. The tube was glowing with power, as I channelled my emotions into magic, into intent.

Ron never learned of that discussion. As we returned to the hospital wing she tried to apologise, tried to explain the charm Professor McGonagall had used so people wouldn't be curious about her time travelling; I pretended to ignore her. I continued to pretend when she spent the next day with Ron and his mauled leg, and I pretended further when she cooed over the small owl Sirius had bought to replace Ron's 'rat'.

When we went to the world cup, we talked of inconsequential things, a silent agreement not to gouge out old wounds. I took to seating myself in a corner and reading, often the worn storybooks of Wizarding myths and legends, where the hero would have his items of power; the flaming swords, the mirrored shields. Something clicked for me, and on spare parchment I started scribbling ideas. I started copying rune clusters, designing patterns that would impart even just a fraction of the old world's stories into objects, the flaming swords, the impenetrable cloaks. In time myself, Hermione and Ron were back to being friends; they had each other, and I had my work. Just before the beginning of the new school year they decided that they were dating, and I congratulated them. The old wounds were healed if still tender, and I still had my first and best friends.

Then the goblet of fire chose to destroy the life I had built up for myself. Once again, the memory of my parent's sacrifice for me was snubbed, as yet another situation arose to risk the life they had saved, on the very anniversary of their sacrifice. But of course that is not what Ron saw. He exploded at me right in the middle of the great hall. He said I had everything; the fame, the glory, the money. He said that I had everything, that it wasn't fair, and I cut him off.

* * *

"And _Ron, __**you**__ have the girl"_ I said softly, as I stood up and walked to the head table.

* * *

The French Competitor belittled me, Cedric was confused, and Krum was silent. Everyone in that room knew I didn't want to be here, to be a part of this. Of course, they gave me no way out of the tournament.

Ron publicly claimed I cheated, said that I put my name in and refused to help anyone else do so. Hermione was off to one side, but without even her token support the Griffindors turned on me as a group. I suppose it was too much to hope she would openly contradict her boyfriend, since the bickering and fights had all but dwindled to nothing in the past few weeks, and so I became a pariah in my own house.

Breakfast the next morning was no better; the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs scorning me for stealing their champions glory, the Slytherins never having been fans. The faces at the teacher's table were the same, even if they didn't vocalise it.

And then I heard about the dragons. The listening charm was a moment of inspiration, as Professor Sprout lead Cedric from the hall. My lack of practise meant it didn't last long, but it was enough to hear the important part.

Dragons.

Perhaps if it had lasted longer, perhaps if I had heard the full conversation I would have picked a different plan. Maybe I would have practised the summoning charm, and played to my strengths.

But this will be far more flashy.

I wave my wand, dismissing the silencing charm. The faintly glowing tube now resting at my feet.

"_Sonorous"_

The fifty-sixth chime sounded.

"May I have your attention please?"

The murmuring from the crowd grew quiet. Perhaps they want to see this over as soon as I do.

"I know the majority of you don't think I should be in this tournament." Boos. "I agree."

I may have given up trying to defend myself against these people individually, but I may as well say it once for everyone.

"I didn't enter myself into this tournament. I don't know how many of you know my history, but there are people who feel that my demise would be to their advantage." Quirrel, Tom Riddle, Voldemort.

Ron's red face stood out in the crowd, the bushy head of hair next to him now looking at me.

"As of today, I'm still alive; despite the efforts of killing curses, possessed teachers, Acromantula, Basilisks, Dementors and Werewolves. Honestly, I don't want to add dragons to that list."

Right on cue, the horntail roared. I smile.

"So I won't."

Reaching down, I pick up a small rock and place it in the tube, then another, then another.

"But if I don't at least attempt to reach the golden egg, then I lose my magic."

I turn to face the dragon.

"And that would make it hard for me to survive if people keep trying to kill me."

The dragon looks back at me.

"Unfortunately, dragons are quite lethal. Call me a coward, but I don't particularly want to go near it."

McGonagall shakes her head at her 'courageous' cub. One day I might tell her the hat wanted me in Slytherin. The fifty-ninth chime sounded.

"So, I'm sorry about this."

Hefting the tube onto my shoulder, a small trickle of my magic starts a cascade of light.

* * *

"Harry?"

I lean back and rub my eyes, aching from poring over the rules of the Triwizard contract.

"Are you ok? Can we talk for a while?" It's Hermione. Which means that Ron…

"Sure. What did you want?"

She frowns at my cold tone. While she may not be openly harassing me like most of everyone else in this school, not once has she said a word in my defence either. We used to be friends damnit!

"Harry, why are you avoiding me? Avoiding everyone?" Avoiding people?

Is she blind? I bite back the scathing remark.

"I'm not avoiding anyone Hermione. The clear space all around me formed _after_ I sat down, not before." Best not to mention the only time I can normally even get a seat in here is during mealtimes.

"Harry, you need to-"

…here he is. Mt. Weasley.

"Why are you talking to _him_?"

I tune Ron out, as is my habit. Ten minutes later I look up, and they're gone.

* * *

It's amazing what wizards used to create to keep up with their non-magical counterparts; self-propelling vehicles, fireplace transport, and Crystal radio. Half a millennium ago, progress was far faster; a rapidly evolving muggle world was using mechanics and machines to do things faster, better. Then there was a separatist movement; witches and wizards shrank back from the greater population, and in their own little islands declared themselves to be the superiors of the species.

It wasn't wholly incorrect.

But the muggles continued to grow and thrive, while wizardkind decayed. If a muggle couldn't lift an object, he would set up a pulley and winch; if a wizard couldn't levitate it, the object obviously wasn't supposed to be moved.

The worlds grew apart.

Before the separation, advancement in technology was met with an advance in magic. A powerful non-magical weapon was met with a magical counterpart, but all that progress stopped.

Thankfully they never got to enchanting cannons.

After all, what could a cannon possibly do that a spell could not? And every witch or wizard is capable of it.

But wizards are limited by their own power, the power of the individual. They don't need tools; don't need weapons, because everything they could ever want can be procured with intent, visualisation and power, and a wand. So when faced with an obstacle they can't surpass, they try to go around it.

A muggle on the other hand would just tunnel through.

It's a fact; one wizard is better than one muggle. Similarly, one dragon is better than one wizard. They live longer, are physically stronger, are more resistant to damage and if they want you dead, you'll not likely see the next day.

So in a fight between a child and a dragon, who should win?

* * *

"Dragons."

I lose the charm after hearing professor Sprout's kindly voice.

_Dragons._

* * *

I can feel the shift in my weapon. There's no going back now.

It again occurs to me that all so called 'great' witches and wizards been to be born from their actions, from a defining moment where they say something or they do something that makes people stand up and take notice.

This will be mine.

"_I'm sorry."_

A flash of light and it's over. The lack of recoil makes me want to chuckle. The crowd all seem to be holding their breath, looking at the dragon as I start walking up.

You see, dragons are stronger than wizards. They are heat resistant, impact resistant, spell resistant.

Dragons may be resistant to heat, but even they burn at a high enough temperature.

Dragons may be resistant to impact, but their bones can still be broken.

The reason that dragons are stronger than wizards is that a lone wizard cannot hit it hard enough, or overcome its defences.

Dragons are, after all, resistant to magic.

"I'm sorry." I dispel the amplification spell on my throat, and reach down to pick up the egg.

The sixtieth chime rings out, and I dispel that too.

Noise builds up in the crowd as they realise what has happened. The dragon handlers run up to try and revive her.

They won't, not that they'll accept that. After all, a wizard can't kill a dragon; a large group? Maybe. But a child, a fourteen year old wizard? Not a chance.

As I turn my back I remind myself to claim it as spoils once the scores are given out. The rules do say it's mine now after all.

The crowd start reacting loudly. Most of them are angry, and some of them are crying having realised the dragon is dead. Some simply don't think its dead yet. The hole where it's heart and lungs used to be saying otherwise, the blinding white mass of molten rock caught in the wards saying otherwise.

The spectators came today to watch four children fight dragons.

They came today to watch a blood sport.

And instead they saw me. I wonder if they realised what I showed them?

The dragon handlers are too shocked to do anything; is the red-haired one Ron's brother? It would have been nice of the Weasleys to tell me about the dragons.

Glancing up, Hermione has left the stands, Ron seems to be looking for her.

Turning towards the medical tent, I sigh. If the wizarding world is good for anything, it's patterns.

_One fight down, one fight left._


	4. Chapter 4

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: argh! Just hit my first formatting mess-up. Had to happen just before I was unable to get on for a day -.- Thanks for the reviews that let me know - might have been another day before I noticed otherwise.

**Chapter 3**

* * *

It seemed that half the school's teaching staff was waiting for me. Smiling I held my newly acquired golden egg in greeting.

"Potter!"

Snape, or 'Professor Snape' as he prefers to be called has been an oddity this year in that, despite everything, his attitude towards me hasn't changed in the slightest. It says a lot that the only staff member in the entire school less concerned with me is in fact, a ghost and may not even know who I am.

The teachers start moving to meet me halfway. With Snape is the short Professor Sprout, Cedric's own mentor during the tournament. I remember from the commentary that he took an injury from his dragon and she still looks somewhat worried for him over an hour later.

Despite the early warning about that dragons, and whatever help he's been given since.

Walking a little behind are the other two heads of houses. Professor McGonagall, who is oddly not my mentor during the tournament or even a supporter, is looking…angry? You would think that after the expression Hufflepuff's head is showing that she would at least be relived for my lack of injury.

Professor Flitwick is another matter entirely; he almost looks exited and is eying my…cannon? With a look that betrays his Goblin heritage. Under other circumstances I would be more than happy to discuss the magic behind my creation but after its slight over performance, perhaps it's one-shot nature is for the best; the carvings on the inside have a tendency to burn out and become unrecognisable after it fires.

I suppose if he wants to examine the scarred remains, he can.

The last four are the people I really want to see the reactions from. Professor Moody, his lighting blue eye fixed firmly on my weapon seems…afraid? The man was supposed to be supporting me through the tournament and yet hasn't made a single attempt to contact me outside of class. Honestly, I don't care much for him; his tendency to shout out randomly and his extreme paranoia in regards to….virtually everything leave him someone unapproachable.

I didn't think I'd ever see him afraid though.

Madame Maxime seems subdued. She was almost as vocal as I in support of withdrawing me from the tournament, if less for my self-preservation based reasons as for her student's "ee's too 'oung." Curiously I've seen no hostility from any of the Beaxbatons students besides Fleur despite the number of times I've crossed paths with them down by the lake; maybe manners are encouraged in their school, a lesson Hogwarts could surely make use of.

Karkaroff is looking at me with a Dumbledorian twinkle in his eyes. From what I've read, Durmstrang puts a lot of emphasis in competition between students, be it in Duelling or Quidditch; perhaps now he sees that I'm serious he won't be so adamantly opposed to a child competing.

Or maybe it's something else entirely.

Dumbledore is simply looking at me in concern. Perhaps using a dark curse in front of the Leader of the Light wasn't such a good idea after all; though that it did get results. I'll have to remember to thank Professor Vector for letting me read her thesis on the use of geometry in spell amplification.

It seems that outside of Snape's original outburst, no-one is willing to say anything, instead simply looking down (or up in Flitwick's case) at me.

"So," I begin, casting around for what could _possibly_ be said in this situation. "How did I do?"

Having three of the five judges down here instead of up in the stands means I'll either have a zero, or they're not here to give me my points. I look down at my egg pointedly, and back up at Dumbledore.

"Harry my boy, can I ask what inspired such a use of…force? The other competitors all managed the challenge without harming the dragons involved; surely you could have used another way?"

Ah, guilt. I suppose I expected it.

"Well, sir, until just before the task, all I knew is that the first task involved dragons. Had this task not been a surprise, I'm sure I could have come up with a more fitting plan, but I lacked the information. What was I to do should the first task been to slay a dragon, and I had only prepared to sneak past one?" The justification rolls off my tongue as easily as it did the hundred times I told it to myself.

"Though I should point out that I only killed one; I believe Krum managed to destroy a large number of eggs correct? And if a nesting mother was protecting them…" I look at Karkaroff. "Exactly how many dragons did Krum kill sir?"

Thankfully my horntail was crouched low over her eggs. While an enraged dragon might be able to break them while stomping around, dragon eggs are still almost as tough as steel.

Karkaroff broke into a grin at seeing my deflection.

"But still my boy, there is a difference between an accident, and purposefully killing the poor beast."

Dumbledore definitely wants me sorry for my actions. "But still headmaster, if I had known more about the coming task," I throw an obvious look at professor sprout, "or maybe had the benefits of at least having attained my OWLs," I look back to Dumbledore, "then I could have dealt with it another way. Would you have preferred me to risk my life given my history with hostile magical creatures?"

That shut him up.

"Am I needed for anything else? Madame Pomphrey is probably getting worried that I've managed to injure myself walking to her tent." With no reply I begin my walk, only to hear the last, expected question.

"One last thing Mr Potter," The transfiguration teacher's voice calls out, "could you leave your spellwork here with myself and Professor Flitwick, so it may be disposed of safely? After its performance, it might not be best to carry it into the medical tent."

"Sure." After placing it down, I let go of the thin thread of magic keeping the featherlight charms in place, leaving it as little more than a scarred, twisted rock, and make my way into the tent.

* * *

I wave to the three champions as I enter the tent. Cedric is a mass of bandages and burn cream, whilst Fleur and Krum appear unscathed, if bored. None appear to notice me as I make my way over to the examination table.

"Dragons!" she said in a disgusted tone, while pulling out her wand. The shadows of the three other competitors moved apon hearing her voice, probably happy that they would soon be allowed to leave. "Last year Dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring to the school next?" She shook her head while examining me for injuries, apparently put out that I'm for once in her care without a scratch.

"Don't forget the basilisks." I joke, filling the silence.

"Yes, well…you've obviously pushed yourself quite hard out there, are you feeling tired or nauseous at all?" At the shake of my head she gives up. "Well I suppose you're free to go. Think you'll manage a whole year without injury?"

"I'll try, I promise."

"Well now I know you're all fine, go outside and get your score and then make your way to the champions tent; I believe Mr Bagman will be telling you about the next task."

* * *

Madame Maxime twisted her wand in the air, and a large '6' flew from it.

The crowd seemed somewhat undecided what noise to make, so it all fades together into a background humming.

Mr Crouch came next, shooting up a '9'.

Both cheering and booing rose up in equal volume, does that mean I have supporters now? And to think, all it took was killing one not so little dragon and making people wait an hour for it. Idiots.

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment and then threw up a…

"A two? Seriously? Where the hell did I lose eight points!" my outburst was drowned out by the background humming.

Ludo bagman predictably threw up a '10'. I nod and wave in thanks, already planning to see if I can invest my soon-to-be-winnings from the Weasley twins wherever he made his bet. No uses in letting free money go to waste, right?

And lastly Karkaroff seemed to give a moment's thought before putting up a '9'; then he turned and smirked at Dumbledore. It's odd to be getting more support from the ministry and foreign schools than from my own, but I can't complain, thirty-six points out of fifty is more than comfortable considering how long I took. The crowd seem happy with the result too, and the small amounts of cheering in the buzz die down as the stands vacate.

As I move over to the champion's tent to hear about the next task, a voice calls out from one of the dragon handlers.

"Harry? Wait there."

It's the Weasley dragon brother; I seem to remember his name is,

"Charlie, right? Ron told me about you." I answer with a smile. His face is lit up with an odd combination of anger and awe, oddly reminiscent of Ron's own Hunger/Anger combo.

"Yes well, we need to talk." His glace over at the fallen dragon makes the subject matter obvious. "When I asked ron to give you a head's up over the first task…I didn't expect…"

"Charlie." I cut him off. "Can you wait till I've had a talk with Mr Bagman? I need to ask him about something first." And with that I walked into the tent.

Cold stares met me from the faces of the Hogwarts and Beaxbatons Champions, and an appraising look came from Durmstrang's. Shortly after me, Ludo Bagman entered.

"Wow! What an exhilarating start to our Triwizard tournament! Congratulations to all of you for succeeding an getting your golden egg!" He beamed over at me and continued.

"Now, you've all got the clue to the second task in your hands; see the hinges? All the help you need for preparing is in there! You have till half past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth, which should be plenty of time. Are we all clear? Good! Off you go then!"

After the other champions left, I approached him.

"Mr Bagman sir, I need to have a word; it's about the dragon." His eyes lit up.

"Yes, that was quite the spectacle wasn't it? Off all the things I was expecting…so what is it? If you're worrying about having to pay for it, don't bother as it's more than covered for. Those eggs on the other hand…" I interrupted him before he could get into a rant about the cost of replacing over a dozen eggs.

"It's not that sir it's…well, according to the Triwizard rules, section 16, having slain a 'dangerous beast' provided by the organisers of the tournament, I have the right to claim it's carcass. I'll be taking that right, sir." I ended with a smile, knowing exactly where his mind was going.

A thousand Galleons may have been worth far more than a dragon back when the rules were written, but they haven't been revised in over six hundred years.

"Now, I need to go talk to the dragon handlers. Can you inform the other judges for me?"

"Umm, yes. Section sixteen you say? I'll have to check this by crouch, he knows the rules better than I do…You know, if you need a hand getting in touch with someone that can deal with it for you?"

"I'll be fine sir. Though if you know a decent place I can place a bet, I happen to be aware that I'm the 'Underdog', so to speak, so the odds…if you know what I mean?" His eyes lit up.

"Of course of course! Well I won't keep you, places to be and all that. Congratulations again Harry."

* * *

"Yup, it's in the rules."

Charlie Weasley was looking at me in disbelief. I handed a parchment with the rule in question on it.

"I just notified Bagman myself, and I suppose I need your help as well."

"And what can we do to help you Potter? It's bad enough the reserve is going to have to cover the costs of the dragon, but now you're saying we can't even harvest her? Have you any idea how much dragons are worth?"

I frown. "Not particularly. I know Dragon's blood is valuable?"

"Yes it is."

"And the meat is pretty expensive?"

"Yes, that too. What about it?" He looks annoyed.

"And they make armour of out the hide…that's got to be pretty valuable?"

"What is your point? I'm not going to help you sell it is that's what you're after."

And finally the Coup de grâce. "No, of course not. But I do need it harvested, and I'd like to offer you the entire hide, most of the meat and three-quarters of the blood and all other viscera if you can provide me with the bones, horns, spikes and teeth in stasis charms?"

The older redhead looked contemplative as I notice a younger one approaching alongside a mane of brown hair. "Look, I'll come back to iron out any details later, or send someone to do it, as I need to get back to the castle. Sorry again about the dragon!" I rushed out and bolted, but not before the predictable "Harry!" came from the approaching duo.

* * *

"Dobby!" I called upon entering the kitchens.

"Harry Potter Sir!" I heard as the diminutive elf popped into existence amidst the crowd of elves currently filling the tables upstairs. "What can Dobby get for Harry Potter's Dinner tonight, Sir?"

Since my estrangement from practically everyone else, the Hogwarts kitchen has become a home away from home. Elves are quiet creatures when not being asked to do anything, as long as they don't get into a disagreement; arguments between house elves are surprisingly violent for such small people. Add to that their helpful nature and I've ended up doing most of my reading, studying and relaxing down here. Not to mention they act as an early warning system; Hermione's presence near the kitchens sends them into a state of near-panic.

They refuse to tell me why.

I also found Dobby here, whose help has been almost invaluable. Not many elves are capable of finding specific books in the library, Dobby just tells me that it was one of his jobs for bad masters, and is happy that he can help the great 'Harry Potter Sir'. All attempts to get him to call me anything else failed miserably, as the only alternative he gave me was 'Master'.

I can do without that.

"Dobby, do you fancy cooking something special tonight?" His bat-like ears pricked up, which I've come to know as a sign of anticipation. "Do you know where the dragon enclosure is?" He nods. "Well, I want you to go find a Charlie Weasley down there. Tell him I sent you, and that if he's harvested any of the meat already I'd like one large steak, and the rest of the meat is his as per our agreement. And then…well, I'd like a steak dinner please."

I've never eaten dragon meat before. One thing a lot of the books I've read mentioned that there's ritualistic significance to eating the flesh of a fallen foe; preferably the heart, but I doubt there is much left of that. Dragon steak is supposed to be a delicacy though, and normally the only available meat comes from dragons that died of old age…my mouth waters in anticipation.

"Of course, Harry Potter Sir!" He says as he pops away. Awesome little guy.

I take the egg from my pocket. The screeching noise from inside would just panic the elves so I can't really decipher the clue in here without being kicked out; the confusion would probably cause some interesting effects though. I push the temptation away and look at it more closely. The fine scrollwork doesn't look like any sort of runes or engraving-based magic I've ever seen, so probably just decoration. Is there any significance to it specifically being a golden egg? Nothing jumps out at me from the various Wizarding fairy tales I've read. Giving up, I replace it in my pocket and pull out a book. "Can I get some Coffee please? Thank you. Call me Harry. Just Harry. Oh for…fine."

* * *

Dragon Steak is **amazing**. I'm beginning to regret saying that they can have the rest, as this is to die for. I tell this to Dobby and he almost passes out from sheer joy. Elves don't normally get to cook Dragonmeat, so the others are looking at him with a kind of reverence; why it's so important evades me.

And then it happened.

One minute elves are everywhere, cleaning the plates and platters from the great hall, and sending up last-minute deserts, and the next thing I know a few dozen small pops are heard and the kitchen is really understaffed. It can only mean one thing. And I still don't know _why._

"Harry, there you are I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing in here and what is that!" Something has obviously happened; it's rare to hear Hermione forget grammar. And breathing.

"This," I gesture reverently, "is one hundred percent genuine, fresh dragon meat. These," I gesture again, "are potatoes, a root vegetable commonly associated with Ireland. This," I falter at the look on her face. "Is my dinner tonight. What brings you here?"

"Oh, I got into a fight with…Did you say Dragon meat!" Ouch Hermione, not so loud. "As in, from today?" Uh oh.

"Yes, yes it is. I would offer you some but I only made the deal for one steak. A victory meal as it were." She looked faintly disgusted, best to get back on track. "So let's try again, why are you here?"

Tears form in her eyes. Bollocks. "I didn't mean it like that I meant," I rushed. You're supposed to be annoyed with her! Stop feeling bad. "You said you got into a fight…is it, perhaps, Ron?"

Now I get to see what the guy's saying now. Dark lord potter killing dragons with dark curses perhaps?

"No, it was," Sniff. "It was Neville."

Neville? Making girls cry? The hell.

"He said, he said that I had been a terrible friend. He said that I should have stuck with you and defended you from Ron. He…he…." And with that she broke down.

"Look at me." Nothing. "Hermione, look at me." Still nothing. "Mione?" Nothing. "Mia?" More nothing. "Hermy?" A snort of laughter. Progress! "Hermione, look. He's your boyfriend, and best friend, I get that. Neville…probably should have…shouldn't have…ok, maybe he was right. But I understand, ok? The damage is done now, but it's not your fault. It's Ron's."

She still doesn't look happy. "Look, go to sleep. We'll take tomorrow, ok?" She nodded and left, house elves reappearing in her wake.

And they _still_ won't tell me why.


	5. Chapter 5

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Dragonmeat is awesome.

**Chapter 5**

It's days like this why I don't understand why some relatively simple concepts just aren't taught at Hogwarts.

For a world mired in stories, fables and old wives tales, a world which draws power from these things, why are we not encouraged to embrace such them? With Hermione as an example, muggleborns spend their time at Hogwarts _studying_ magic, _quantifying_ magic, trying to bring a force so far beyond comprehension down to a level where we can try to understand it, just for someone to take a leap of faith and show utter disregard for any form of order or theory, and still get brilliant results.

Let's take the slayer's ritual. Kill a magically powerful beast; roast its heart over an open fire, and meditate on your kill for half a day while draped in the beast's pelt or hide. Doing so, as far as the books read, imbibes the hunter with increased strength, speed and constitution, while giving an innate understanding of other 'prey'.

No amount of arithmancy or philosophy allows me to translate that to killing a dragon from a hundred yards, eating a steak with boiled potatoes and pepper sauce, and then collapsing into bed without getting undressed. People study, they quantify, and in the end they overlook the most important thing. Actions and intentions get results.

Which is why I feel bloody amazing right now.

I'm not a morning person. Being able to lie in till seven makes Hogwarts a ten month holiday for me, and I normally try to make the most of it, but now I'm…really awake. And I feel bigger. A hand confirms that my shoulders, normally hard plates of bone with thin, wiry muscles drawn around them, are now, for lack of a better word, padded. A deep breath lets me feel my muscles pull my ribcage up to inhale the air, instead of the air pushing up my chest. I open my eyes, and in the dim light the room looks like a well-lit blur. No change to my prescription I guess.

Standing up, I almost overbalance; it seems I've gained a few inches too.

Fumbling for my wand, I throw a weak silencing charm over myself so I won't wake everyone if I fall over. Last thing I need is Dean or Seamus to start asking about my sudden growth spurt, or Ron finding something more to be jealous about. Dim as he normally is, he always seems fast to come up with 'Evil' theories for how anyone's done anything. Ever.

Odd how you don't notice something like that till you break off your friendship. Prick.

Walking down to the great hall reminds me of the polyjuice incident. Even just gaining a couple of inches make navigating staircases difficult, a bit like the awkwardness of wearing heeled dragonhide boots for the first time. It's empowering, yes, but also disorienting. And awkward when you walk into someone who you find yourself unable to even see at the best of times.

I swear, Luna Lovegood was born with built-in Notice-me-Not charms; and possibly others, given how hard I'm finding extracting myself from this slightly compromising position.

"eh, 'morning Luna. Could you move…thanks. How did you…there we go."

I don't need 'Defiler of third-years' added to my CV of evil deeds.

"Good evening Harry," she says in a dazed tone not far from her normally dreamy one. "Why are you in my…" then she blinks. Twice. "Good morning Harry. Are you infested with…." She yawns, waving off some possibly invisible creature and I take the opportunity to help her to her feet.

"Not a morning person huh? Join me for breakfast?"

She nods and begins shuffling to the great hall. Now that I know she's there I have an easier time keeping track of her, but even still my eyes tend to slide right past her. That she can do it while asleep on her feet; not many people really impress me these days, but you have to hand it to her. I'll hold off trying to ask until she's woken up though; talking with luna is far more entertaining when she's alert enough to speak in her magical creature metaphors. Or at least that's what I assume they are, as Nargles sound like some magical form of lice.

So of course I begin absently scratching my head. Damnit.

* * *

As I expected, no-one notices that Luna sits next to me in the great hall. Doesn't she have any friends in her own house? Ravenclaws make the majority of the population at breakfast this early, despite Hufflepuff being the house of hard work even they tend to get all the sleep the can. I hear snatches of conversation; some inane things like homework, Herbology projects and Quidditch, but the larger majority seem to be talking about me and dragons.

A Galleon says that at least one 'Claw asks me about my cannon before I finished breakfast. Speaking of which, I best let Luna get some coffee so I can ask about my bet.

Holding my hand over the pitcher of pumpkin juice, I feign a look of intense concentration an in a low but carrying tone of voice, I say one word.

"**Coffee."**

A few Ravenclaws stare and a couple of second year Griffindors are startled as the pitcher is replaced by an oddly shaped flagon of coffee, a jug of cream and a pile of sugarcubes. Pouring the drinks for Luna and myself, I chuckle as a handful of students all appear to be trying something similar to no effect; it would break my heart to tell them it was all prearranged with the elves though.

Ask them for help, be persistently polite and learn their names and they'll help you out like this. Then all you need is a flair for the dramatic and practise speaking in an ominous voice and, well, it goes without saying.

My pranks may not be as flashy as the twin's, but prank I shall!

Luna's eyes seem to gain colour as she inhales the drink. Then she looks surprised, as I I shouldn't be here, and smiles.

"Good morning Harry."

"Good morning Luna. Awake yet?" I push some toast towards her. An absent nod, and we begin eating in relative silence. I start going over my plans for the day. Lessons were care of magical creatures and runes, both of which I was sorely tempted to give a miss. Hagrid would probably be upset over the dragon, and I don't particularly want to be chastised for doing supposedly post-NEWT work; well, that and I don't want to deal with the people. Being a Triwizard champion has its perks; I can't be punished for missing lessons so long as I justify the use of my time, and with the next task being about three months away I'm not going to be able to take advantage of it for a while after today.

Let's see. I should probably catch up with Charlie and see how the harvesting is going, test the results of last night's victory meal, thank the elves for the coffee, and try to get a head start on the egg. And figure out where to store a whole dragon, sans flesh.

By my third helping of breakfast the hall was starting to become crowded, and _loud_. Killing dragons good gossip makes, and people are still talking about the coffee. I pour myself a fresh cup as familiar rodent walks over.

"So, dabbling in the Dark Arts Potter?" Draco the annoying bouncing ferret had made his weekly sojourn to the Griffindor table. "And alone are you? Got no friends? You're pathetic, Potter."

Covertly glancing at Luna while drinking my coffee, I stare at him levelly. I could let him continue, though if he keeps spitting my name out like that the food'll become inedible. What to do, what to do…

"And then you had to go grabbing more people's attention by killing a dragon, with Dark Arts no less! How did it make you feel, Potter," I quickly cover my cup with my hand, "powerful? Intoxicated? We all know…"

"Scientific, actually." I interrupt, knowing the muggle term would throw him off. "As fascinating as it is, I fail to see how Vector's theorem of geometry induced spell amplification could be _intoxicating_. Unless you're talking of the spell itself, where I could see how a weak rodent like yourself might be drawn to being able to do more with your wand than polishing it."

"So you think you're powerful, huh? Well I could…"

"Malfoy." He stops. "We've already established I have no problem killing dragons, _Draco_, so why don't you run along? I'm sure ferrets are no more of a challenge."

He's saying something else, but I ignore him in favour of serving up some more coffee to myself and Luna, who is starting to look catatonic again. Doesn't she sleep?

Glancing around, I see that the little dragon had left, and the Griffindors are piling in. Neville comes over, nods to Luna and starts serving up his breakfast.

"Morning Nev…what happened to your eye?"

"Argued with Hermione," Bite of toast, "she started crying and ran out," swig of pumpkin juice, "and then Ron."

"Ah." I reply articulately. "Bugger, I told her I was going to talk to her about that. Any idea when everyone's favourite couple are going to grace us?"

"''Bout ten minutes I suppose. He was still snoring when I got up so it might be longer."

"Alright. Thanks for…talking to Hermione by the way, you didn't have to," A couple of buttered slices of toast 'Popped' onto my plate. That's the signal.

"Yeah, so thanks, but I gotta be off. Make sure Luna eats something, ok?"

As I leave the great hall, I see Ron shuffling down the hallway. Good timing elves, good timing.

* * *

I'm stood with Charlie Weasley, two dozen large barrels and half a dozen crates, all containing bits of dragon.

"So, where are you keeping your share? " He says, pointing at all but one of the crates and two of the barrels.

"I don't suppose they can be shrunk?" He shook his head. "I had thought of somewhere, but I'm not sure they would fit down the pipe. Give me till this evening to this about it, and I'll have to let you know then. At worst I could always store them in an empty classroom for a few days."

So much for the chamber of secrets, but I might be able to get an elf Popping stuff up and down.

"They're already under stasis; should keep for about a decade unless you open them, in which case _you'll_ have to redo the charms. They should be fine if moved by portkey or elf; that elf yesterday was yours, right?"

"I'm…not sure to be honest. He says he's bonded to the castle, but if I want so much as a glass of water and say his name…that said, he'd probably help with this."

"Good. One last thing?"

"Yes?"

"My brother, Bill, is a cursebreaker, so I know some of what you're planning on using that stuff for. You know how much more potent this will be than the rock you used yesterday, right?"

I can almost see the shining in my eyes reflecting off his. "Yes, yes I do."

"Well, try not to blow yourself up, ok? My mother's fond of you, and I'd hear no end to it if she found out I supplied the materials you used to kill yourself with, ok?"

* * *

With an owl winging its way to Sirius, I return to the kitchens for a spot of early lunch. Growing a few inches overnight is really good for your appetite, and the happiness of nearby elves.

Of course, an uninterrupted meal is too good to ask for. "'ello Hermione."

"Harry," She looks far better than she did yesterday. "Umm, how are you?"

"I'm ok. Join me?" A few of the remaining elves quickly place a second seat at my dining table, and vanished as she sat down. "So….yesterday, Ron hit Neville?"

Obviously not an opening she expected. "Yes, why do you ask?"

"Well, he's a friend of mine, who got punched because he was standing up for me. By your boyfriend."

"But…"

"But nothing Hermione. Ron is _not_ my favourite person right now. Care to guess why?"

"Because he hit Neville?"

I shake my head.

"Because he keeps saying bad things about you?"

I shake my head again.

"Because he's going out with me?"

I forcibly prevent myself from nodding. "Not quite."

"Is it because of what he's saying about you stealing the dragon's remains from his brother?"

Can the boy go _one day_ without putting his bloody foot in his mouth?

"No, but I suppose that's close. On the day of the task, did he seem, you know, surprised about the dragons?"

It's a fascinating thing watching Hermione think; small twitches in her eyes as she chases down a specific memory, nibbling her lip when she can't remember something clearly enough. And then there are the raised eyebrows when she finds what she's looking for. Like those ones.

"No…he wasn't. Why? I mean, why are you asking?"

"Hermione, Ron _knew about the dragons._ All of the champions had someone close to them tell them about the first task and what it was. But Ron had to be a pig-headed bastard and keep it to himself for whatever reason; Charlie said he told him himself. They were fucking Dragons Hermione! What the hell is wrong with your boyfriend!"

"Harry, Language!" she says out of reflex. And then grows contemplative. It's a look I've seen before, normally followed by her justifying whatever rules we were about to break.

"You know, she starts slowly, "After the task yesterday, he told me that he believes you about not putting your name in the cup, and that someone might have forced you into the tournament.. Why don't you go talk to him? I'm sure you'll be alright if you talk it out?"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"No."

"Why not! He's your best friend Harry, and you were supposed to be mine! Why not talk to him?"

"Reason 4."

"Re…what does that have to do with anything?"

"So, he admits that he was wrong, if only to you, then goes ahead and spreads gossip about me anyway?" I'm growing angry by this point. "You'd think that after the amount of times he's referred to you as 'the bossy bookworm' and 'the know-it-all' that you'd be the first one on his case!"

"But I…I…"

"Just go Hermione. I don't think we have anything more to say now, do we?"

"You utter bastard!" She explodes. I'm tempted to call her on her language. "All I want to do is help! All I want to do is get you your friend back so you can go back to being happy! I want to help you prepare for the tournament! So why won't you let me!"

"Let you? You've had since Halloween to 'help'!"

"You wouldn't let me!"

"No," I moderate my tone as to not distress the few remaining elves. "Ron wouldn't let you. Remember all the times you approached me?"

She does.

"Remember what would happen after a few minutes?"

She does.

"Remember anything you said to stand up for me during any of those times?"

"I…" whatever she was going to say died on her lips.

"And you want me to be friends with the bastard?"

She shakes her head.

"I know he used to be my best friend, but I really don't know what you see in him."

She moves to defend him, but I cut in again.

"Whatever you did see in him, it was obviously more important than your friendship with me when it still mattered. It doesn't now." I can feel the pain flow through me, and the memory of the fire in my blood. "Just go."

Luna had said something a few days ago, shortly after one encounter with a Hermione 'trying to help'. That her magic had chosen another because she had chosen who was more important to her life. That she had decided who was more important to her _life._ The stress on that word…life…

On the rare occasions Luna is lucid, she has an awkward habit of being right. I might as well take the parting shot.

"Hermione, you know that Ron would have left you to the troll if I hadn't dragged him along, right?"

Her mouth forms a small 'o' before she becomes visibly angry, glares at me and storms out.

Distinctive pops remind me what I forgot to ask her. Sighing, I finish my meal, now needing to check the library.

* * *

In the three years I've been at Hogwarts, not once have I ever seen anyone jogging around the lake; which is probably why the few students enjoying the rare sunshine seems to be point and staring as I make my third lap.

And I'm still not tired. Before now, I would have been panting less than a quarter of the way around, but instead I'm relaxed and able to focus on other things. Things like life debts.

There are some things that'll damn you just for reading, even if it's not dark arts.

The one book I was able to find regarding them was so poorly written that I had to take three feet of notes before I could start understanding what the damned things actually were. And even now it makes me confused trying to figure them out.

Apparently, they apply to practically anyone. The short of it is that is person A saves person B's life, then person B will be more accepting of person A's opinions and actions. Which makes complete sense on its own; it's the magic that complicates everything. The addition of magic makes this 'acceptance' and almost tangible thing, a compulsion to do as someone asks, or to not act against them. It's small, but it's constant. Over a few years...The person has to be in acceptance of the debt, and completely convinced that it was entirely person A's actions that saved their life, out of no sense of duty.

Getting this far, I was very tempted to use Ron as my test dummy for whatever I make with the dragonbone.

The _really_ annoying part though, is that they can't truly change people, and they have to believe in the rot to begin with. So if something happens, then it was likely to happen anyway, they just wouldn't fight against it. So it's not their fault. Kind of like a knight saving a princess, or similar.

That brings me up short. Bollocks.

If anyone's going to believe in something like this, then Ron's sister is going to be a pain in a few years, isn't she?

"Master Harry Potter Sir?" Thank god for Dobby's timing. Some things just don't bear thinking about.

"Yes Dobby? Found anywhere?"

Bouncing up and down, he replies "Yes! Dobby found the perfect place for boneses Master Harry won with his boomstick!" He's slipped back into calling me master…ugh.

"Well, tell Charlie, and move everything up there, ok? I'll come find you after dinner and you can show me then?"

"Yes Master Harry Potter Sir!"

"Stop calling me," 'pop' "Master. Damnit."

I wonder if my parting shot to Hermione broke three years of fairy-tale fantasies? Ooops?

* * *

"Dobby waited for Harry Potter!" I hear from next to a pile of badly hidden crates in the corridor. Not the kind of place I would have asked for him to store things to be honest…

"So, Dobby, where's this room you told me about?"

"Elves call it the Come and go room, the room of hidden things, the room of requirements!" Dobby sounds nervous, was this room supposed to be a secret? And where is it?

"Master must walk back and forth in from of the wall, while asking the castle for what he needs. Room can be anything!"

"Anything?" An idea floats up in my mind.

He nods solemnly.

Steeling myself, I walk back and forth three times, and a door appeared.

_Hogwarts, I need…an Artificer's workshop._

* * *

A/N: Enter the massively overpowered RoR plot device!


	6. Chapter 6

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Hello everyone! I'm not too fond of overly large, immersion breaking author's notes, so I'll try to keep 'em short. First order of business; to the reviewer sarah-rose76646, someone noticed! The fic I read almost immediately before suddenly finding myself inspired to write was actually one of jbern's. 'Bungle in the jungle' is a **really** good fanfic, and the whole first-person harry I have going is a direct consequence of me liking how he did it. So if you haven't read it, do so! He's a far better writer than I.

Secondly, I'm going to apologise again for the typos and other hideous mistakes that creep in here and there. I'm trying to get into a good read-write-proofread-post rhythm, and yet still finding myself instead just posting whatever my brain manages to leak out onto the keyboard. I blame my bad organisational skills.

And lastly; wow! Looking at the number of reviewers, followers and…favoriters? Favorers? Whatever. Anyway, the numbers might not look impressive, but it's a really gratifying feeling whenever my phone beeps and I find evidence of another person liking my work. So I'd like to thank you all!

Now back to your somewhat regularly scheduled fanfic.

**Chapter 6**

The walk to transfiguration was one of the easiest I've had in a long time.

"But it was three feet of parchment! How are you supposed to write three feet about transfiguring metal from wood?"

Ah, the bliss of ordinary conversation, of people acting normally despite my presence.

"For goodness' sake Ronald! Haven't you been paying any attention in class?"

Being able to stand in a crowd with no whispering behind my back, no disdainful looks, no outright hatred of my presence? Absolute _bliss._

And I have Luna to thank. Well, maybe not entirely, but inspiration has to come from somewhere, right? It took a lot of time, brainstorming and cursing, but I was completely unable to figure out her ability to be ignored by everyone. So instead, I created my own.

Notice-me-not charms are among some of the most generalised charms in existence. As opposed to being the name of a single spell, it simply refers to a whole collection of spells which more or less do the same thing; in this case, making someone unable to mentally process that the affected thing exists. Powerful and disciplined wizards will often claim to be able to ignore them as a whole, but this is normally in error, since being able to ignore every single charm of its kind would probably break someone's mind ten minutes into the Wizarding world.

You see, the spells change depending on what is being hidden, why it's being hidden, who it's being hidden from and most importantly, how vital the thing remains hidden. In our first year of Defence against the Dark arts, we were supposedly taught a very simple version of the charm, which when cast on an object would cause anyone seeing it to think it was 'normal'.

It was a spell exempt from the restrictions on underage source up until about nine years ago, as its main use was so that a Hogwarts student could keep their books and homework hidden in 'plain sight' as it were.

On the other extreme is a spell, or more accurately a ritual-based charm, which given my backstory is more than familiar; the Fidelus. Where standard charms really only work if you're exposed to it, the Fidelus affects magic itself – no matter where you are, or how powerful you claim to be, if you're not meant to know, you literally cannot know. It's powerful to the point where a person will actually go out of their way to come up with another explanation for the apparent lack of knowledge, which is why it's so damned powerful.

All you have to do is be willing to not only share a secret you'd normally keep from everyone, but to give up the knowledge yourself, even if only temporarily. A harder sacrifice than most would be willing to make.

But those are both charms that hide things that people want to keep hidden. The truly all powerful versions are far more common in day to day Wizarding life, to the point where most people don't even know they exist. After all, how long would you be able to spend in a room with five right angled corners yet straight walls before you deemed yourself insane? Or be able to comprehend a place which doesn't rightly exist, such as an unplottable location? If a secret is important enough to prevent the mental breakdown of anyone viewing it, then the most powerful wizard in the world would tell you that room only has four corners, and change the subject.

So when casting these spells, what do you not want people to notice? If you cast it on yourself, will someone become confused at your apparent lack of clothing? Skin? Do you risk drawing even more attention to yourself, when the very nature of the charms weakens the more people that realise something is missing?

And so came into being the first of what I hope is many, many creations made in the Room of requirement. People around me can see me, hear me, talk to me; they could describe me right down to the way my hair sticks out at the back, and not once realise that they don't know who I am.

Of course, if someone is looking for Harry Potter, they know he's here. But once they've seen me, they stop looking and move on.

Their ignorance is my bliss. Bliss. I love that word.

Of course, the biggest problem is that I am still here. Their minds might skip over the details, evade the subject much like with a time travelling third year I knew, but charms, in the end are like rules. They're made to be broken in some form or another. The weakness of the one I'm using? If someone _needs_ to know the secret, if they have good reason to _know_ the secret, they won't skip over it so much.

"So did you talk to Potter? I can't believe the greedy git did that to Charlie. Their dragon reserve's been having trouble with money, and he goes and steals a bloody dragon from them?"

It's like those moments when you just know that someone's stood behind you, that someone's heard you disparage them in some way. In this case, I get to watch the idiot's face as he suddenly realises who the green-eyed, black haired Griffindor that's casually stood across from him actually is.

Wait for it.

"Bloody hell!"

The best bit is that as far as anyone else is concerned, I'm just another faceless student. Not that Ron needs help cultivating a reputation of yelling at random people. My intent to hex him in some embarrassing manner subsides, and Ron's need-to-know privileges get revoked by magic itself.

Beautiful.

"Ron, what are you yelling about?"

"I thought…I…I don't know?" He fixes his 'Do my homework?' look onto his face and turns to Hermione, hoping the reasons for his actions are covered by her 'Know-it-all' status. Obviously they're not, as she huffs and ignores him.

At least know I know how Luna copes with spending half her time like this. It's bloody hilarious.

* * *

"Potter. A word?"

Sighing, I reach up to my neck and remove the dragon fang maintaining my anonymity. No use attempting a conversation with someone who keeps forgetting who you are.

"Potter, the champions and their partners will be opening the ball." The Transfiguration professor began.

I'm tempted to feign ignorance, or at the very least replace my charm. But she's expecting a response…

"Why?" I ask, dumbly.

She spluttered! A small victory. "It is tradition Mr Potter and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. And if that means you have to find a dance partner, then that is what you will do. Are we clear?"

I skim over the list of girls within the school that I know the names of, and who don't hate, fear or loathe me. Then I strike off any girls who I only know from 'Boy-who-lived-to-have-fangirls' moments, then Luna for the simple reason that people would begin asking why I was dancing my myself and completely miss the point of the whole thing. The biggest downside to maintaining mental lists of things is the dumb, glazed expression that seems to become default when using them.

"Mr Potter, do you understand?" She sounds irritated. Reminding myself how many people are on my list, I can't really get her hopes up though.

"No." Short. Eloquent. A veritable masterstroke of diplomacy, if you ask me.

She sounds exasperated. "And what is it you don't understand?" Bah, foiled.

"Well," I begin, planning out a counter argument. "Cedric, if I remember correctly, is in a relationship with the Ravenclaw seeker, Cho? This means he will have a date. Fleur tends to have most guys falling over themselves just by walking down a corridor or being in a nearby room, she won't have trouble getting a date. Victor is an international Quidditch star of whom any Quidditch fan in the castle would love to go with…do you see the pattern here?"

It seems she doesn't.

"I, on the other hand, seem to inspire fear and loathing in people, no part thanks to the inactions of some people," I level my gaze at her, "after my name came out of the goblet. So why is it important for me to go? To have a 'cheater' and 'attention seeker' opening the ball?"

I should stop. I've spoken one too many righteous tirades lately, too many more and it'll become a habit. I'm too young for a soapbox damn it all!

"Be that as it may," I can hear her forcing the words, "It is your _obligation_ as a champion to attend. I will not have you showing the school in a bad light. Are we clear?" Ok, one last one and then I stop.

"Isn't it's the school's obligation to assign a member of staff a champion trusts as a mentor for the year? I can't help but notice all the other champions have their headmasters or heads of house…"

"As the deputy headmistress I'm too busy to take on another duty, Mr Potter, which is why Albus assigned Mr Moody to you. Isn't that…"

"Another duty? Like House assemblies, regular meetings with the members of your house, being available if a student comes to you with concerns? Things like that?"

Sighing, I replace the necklace. Maybe the sorting hat was right. I wonder if it would resort me if I asked nicely?

"Mr Potter? Where…" I'm already outside the door.

* * *

Things are not as they seem.

That could be the motto of the Wizarding world. After all, how else is it that they can make fire that doesn't burn? I know fire. I happen to like fire. I know what it is, why it is, and what it does.

Wizarding fire isn't like that. Wizarding fire is a manifestation of light that looks like fire, which happens to normally be quite hot. But if I cast incendio, does the fire give off smoke? Does condensation form from steam? No, no it doesn't. Magic 'Fire' can create real fire if it's hot enough, but it seems that somewhere along the way, someone thought they knew what fire was, and designed every bloody fire spell in existence to only_ look_ like fire. So, when a spell's power variable isn't the size of the fire but its heat, a weak spell is just a pretty light. And it's not just fire!

In lieu of a competent advisor, I've resorted to looking at the records of previous Triwizard championships. It seems the first task almost always involves overcoming a magical creature or artefact, just as the final task tends to pit the champions against each other in what is otherwise a race to the cup. My largest concern happens to be with the second one, which tends to be a trial of skill, and to date has the highest number of casualties.

This says a lot when students have to face against chimeras, manticores and in our case, dragons.

Of course I become even more worried after defeating the riddle of the egg. The magic itself was beyond me, but you can only study arithmancy for so long before you recognise patterns within things, and when all those patterns are aligned with one of the primary elements it doesn't leave you with much choice.

The Room of requirement being kind enough to create a small pool for me definitely helped.

So with the line "We've taken what you'll sorely miss", the notorious use of hostages as an 'incentive' to prepare for the task made me scared. Terrified even.

And I suddenly understood the reason for the yule ball. Bollocks.

It's bad enough they risk other students; I'm sure the hostages will be safe, what with all the vaunted safety precautions that are in place this year and the fact that after last year's Azkaban breakout the ministry probably can't afford to look negligent in front of their European peers, but my problem is that they're using the ball to see who we, the champions, actually care enough about for us to rush into a dangerous situation to save. Or failing that, someone we feel we owe for putting up with us.

I hate this damned tournament. Killing a dragon I can deal with, I can plan around, but this?

The worst part is that should I not pick someone, they'll probably go with one of my 'old' friends, someone who I used to care about. One of whom I'm liable to leave in whatever mess they get themselves into and the other… would probably just make the first 'friend' blow a gasket.

So my options are thus. I could avoid absolutely everyone for the next few months, and hope they somehow forget I'm a competitor. I could find a random person I don't give a damn about, feign interest in them in front of a few teachers and hope they don't end up being killed, or I can start spending time with someone who wouldn't be at risk.

I'm sure Hagrid could survive practically anything if he needed to, but he's still not happy over the dragon.

I swing my wooden mock-up of a sword ineffectually at the training dummy. Runes flare up as light purple fire dances along its length. Give me a dragon any day; it'd be easier to deal with than this.

* * *

"It's not like I asked him!"

"Oh yeah? Why would he be asking you then?"

And now for another round of fireplace entertainment from the bickering duo of Griffindor. Part of me still wants to jump in and defend Hermione, as I was there unnoticed when Viktor Krum himself asked Hermione to the ball. She turned him down quite graciously, but now…

"Maybe because he noticed I'm a girl you insufferable git!"

The arguments between the two seem to have heated back up again since my chat with her. I can't help but feel accomplished to be honest. Does this make me a bad person?

"And I haven't? You are my girlfriend after all!"

"Then why haven't you invited me to the ball? You've had a week so far, and I've heard nothing! With the amount I've seen you stare over at that French tart…"

Hey, that's uncalled for. It's not Fleur's fault if her lineage forces weak-willed men to drool at her feet, right?

"But I," Ron's face seems to be glowing from embarrassment. I think I heard the word 'robes', as he mumbles out his reasoning. That explains a lot actually. So, I can't help but throw in a barb myself.

"Ron, if it's your robes you're worried about, why don't you borrow mine? A few resizing charms and they'd be fine; it's not like they would fit me now anyway." A few people have commented on my 'growth spurt' as I'm calling it. Thankfully, there have been no rumours about dark rituals or the slaughter of innocents so I think I'm alright mentioning it now. "Your mum picked them out after all."

Hermione's looking at me gratefully, so now I feel bad. She turns to him.

"See? Now ask me to the ball, or I'll go find Viktor." An ultimatum if I ever heard one. But then, he did ask another girl after she left, so an ineffectual one.

"But I…Umm…Hermione," the red tinge to his skin is more anger than embarrassment now. Whether or not he knows that I know that he went into my trunk and shredded those robes after his sister apparently talked about asking if I would go with her, that I don't know. Either way, he's backed into a corner. Yay! "Hermione, would you," it's almost painful to watch. "Would you go to the ball with me?"

"I'll go get those robes now then?" I ask gleefully.

"NO! I mean, umm…I'll…" His resolve lasts all of five seconds before he storms out.

Aww, I was looking forward to tearing him a new one about those robes in front of Hermione. Show's over, folks.

* * *

A paranoid man might be suspicious of someone going swimming in a Scottish loch in midwinter.

I, however, simply sigh in acceptance. The task is in _February_ for hells sake. So not only do I have to save someone from…the squid? But now it looks like I'm saving them from hypothermia as well.

Brilliant.


	7. Chapter 7

**Artificer**

**DISCLAIMER****:** I do not own Harry Potter, but I play in his world. If you recognise it, it's Rowling's.

A/N: Opinions expressed about magic by Harry may not be Rowling's, or correct even in this little universe of his. But he thinks it's right, and who can argue with that? No-one, that's who.

It's worth mentioning that I have another, far larger fanfic of great and overwhelming scope lined up, and the delay on this chapter is kinda due to me spending a bit of time mapping out a system for magic. Since canon lacks any real...explanation whatsoever, a theoretical Ravenclaw!Harry fic seems to me like it'll either be a generic 'harry is smart and likes books yay' or spend a lot of time bogged down in the descriptions of everything. So I figure a nice solid, internally consistent (damn you JK for making that so bloody hard) system for magic that doesn't make it seem like just another science would make a nice solid backbone for a fic. If some of that bleeds through here...all the more reason this might get an eventual rewrite. Good thing I like writing, huh?

**Chapter 7**

Hogwarts is truly a child's dream come true. Or at least, for children who thought like I used to.

I remember daydreaming for hours on end that my primary school would have secret passageways and tunnels, air ducts and crawlspaces leading to secret rooms or the staff-only areas. In those dreams I would make escapes from Dudley and his gang, most likely inspired from the snatches of action movies seen from my cupboard at nights.

Oddly, I like small enclosed spaces. I imagine when I was a child, hiding in that cupboard and pretending it was my own little secret base away from the angry adults seemed like a stroke of genius; probably why I didn't complain about it becoming a bedroom shortly afterwards. That it remained my bedroom for what must have been six years afterwards…I suppose most people would become claustrophobic after a while.

I've rarely been grouped with 'most people'.

I like the secret hideaways this castle has, the passageways that only open on a full moon, the odd behaviour of the staircases. The freedom to get away from it all, discover something new and exciting around every corner.

So it shouldn't really be a surprise to find myself here, in the most well-known, secret room in the whole castle.

The passageway into the chamber is just as I remember it. The cave-in leads to a tight squeeze to get past, and the giant door with the snake motif looms above me as I collect myself. After all, this is where I first really proved myself, where I first stood up for something that I had resolved to do, where I did something truly noteworthy.

Somewhere I accomplished something more than simply surviving another challenge thrown at me.

A gentle hiss opens the door which opens in a dramatically slow manner. The Chamber of secrets is a beautiful place when you look past the years of decay and disuse; soft light reflects off the shallow pools of water, illuminating the serpentine curves of the walls as they rise up into the inky darkness. Even the statue, if of a particularly ugly man, is impressive as it looms down at me, reminding those who enter of the legacy of all those who stood here beforehand.

I imagine if I was a Slytherin, or at least wanted to purge the world of anyone but inbred purebloods, I'd be on my knees with awe right now.

Sadly, I'm not here to take in the surroundings, or look into the secrets of this place. One day? Maybe, as I'm sure this place has knowledge and artefacts long lost and forgotten, waiting for its heirs, but I doubt I would be prepared to find them. A thousand years is a long time, and one cave-in is enough for right now, thank-you-very-much. Instead, I'm looking to something more local.

Here's something I learned yesterday. Just because my body seems to have grown out and toned up, doesn't mean I'm suddenly all powerful and able to perform feats of superhuman strength. This makes some plans, such as crafting a magical, metal sword, rather premature.

After all, there was more than a little dumb luck helping me that day, when I was last here.

The problem is, I really, really want a sword. Wizards, witches and otherwise magical creatures are impressed by overt displays of strength, of power. And as I see it, a large flaming and otherwise sword would be a great way to impress whilst getting through the third task.

As long as they don't suddenly break from tradition, that is.

Not having the few years needed to adequately train, and recognising that sometimes size does matter; an awesomely powerful knife of doom might be serviceable, but it hardly has the wow factor of a handheld cannon or a giant flaming sword, I decided that I needed to be in the market for alternative materials. And as the problem is the weight, I need the theoretical sword to have something to make up for the lack of cutting and stabbing power.

Once I remembered that it would only be used against creatures and otherwise magical obstacles, the answer of 'Basilisk fang' suddenly seems quite obvious. After all, the venom is clearly quite effective at destroying magical items, and that way, I only need to cause a scratch. Forgive me, Hagrid.

The basilisk in question hasn't fared these last years too well. The skin looks completely untouched, acid green scales reflecting the chamber's dim lighting. It's draped loosely over a bleached white skeleton, and the sterile scent of the area around it suggests that in death, it's toxic nature chose to consume it from the inside out, only stopped by the legendarily impervious nature of its hide.

I suppose it's just another oddity of the magical world. The basilisk, the king of the serpents, the guardian of tombs; possessed with both impregnable scales and venom that can corrode anything, is in death the representation of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

A three-foot long fang looks perfect for my work, so I pull a battered-looking set of chisels and a hammer from my rucksack and set to work.

* * *

"You come back in a week! No sooner!"

So I might have been a little _too_ persistent asking the elves about she-who-must-not-be-named. Since Hermione hadn't been around the scare the elves in a while, I thought it might be able to finally find out what they have against her.

Scaring them just before a mealtime is a good way to get kicked out, quickly.

I amble up to the great hall; it's not like I can be recognised, but there's still something about eating in a crowded place that just…gets to me. After the cheers I got for scoring high in the first task, I had at first thought things might be different; I might be apologised to, or at least not openly sneered at, but nothing changed.

Clutching my anonymity to my chest, I walk into the great hall.

The scene is a somewhat normal one from the few times I've eaten in public these last few days; Arguments and conversation in harsh accents coming from the Durmstrang students on the somewhat cowed Slytherin table, bubbly laughter and chattering in softer French and Italian from The Ravenclaw's guests. Halfway up that table a group of men from all years is clustered around, and in the middle I suppose, is the French champion.

And a familiar head of red hair.

"Ball? With me? Please?"

The idiot's question seemed to set off a round of propositions, not many more articulate than the allure enthralled Weasley. Fleur must be having a really bad day.

Chuckling, I move to the Griffindor table, only to spot that which would have an age ago, had me babbling the same question even without any natural attractive gifts. Instead I move a platter of chicken towards me, and start serving myself lunch.

As much as I would love to say that every time I see him he manages to make a complete ass of himself, Ron does manage to be a decent human being most of the time. It's almost like he has some form of obscure magical disease which causes him to lose any reasoning abilities periodically, or maybe causes him to forget random things. Like the fact he's already going to the ball with someone. The sniffling in the seat across from me is a harsh reminder that these periods are accompanied by Hermione crying, most of the time.

"Are you going to talk about it, before you end up drowning your meal?"

"Harry?" Sniff. "I didn't see…never mind, I never do recently."

I pass her a napkin. "Now start venting." She glares at me, dabbing at her eyes.

"It's that, that…French hussy! She always has guys fawning over her like that! How come she get men falling all over her like that? Even…no, especially Ron? It's not fair!"

You know, I'm betting that Fleur is thinking about the same thing right now.

"You know, it's not really her fault." She glares again. "Remember the world cup? When Ron almost jumped off the railing?"

"You mean she's a..?"

"Yup. Or partly at least, I'm not sure how it works. Her grandmother was a Veela."

Hope lights up her still-watery eyes.

"So…so it's not my fault? That…that Ron is…"

"A weak-minded idiot that gets reduced to a stuttering wreak whenever she's in the same wing of the castle as him?" I may be letting some of my bias shine through. "It's not in any way your fault. It's all Ron's."

I smirk at the smile she adopts in the few seconds before she processes the insult.

"Ron isn't an idiot! Ok, he can be a little dense at times, but he's sweet…well…he makes me happy! It's not his fault that that...woman is using her charms on him!" she says, defensively. Part of me wants to quote the legends and lore about being in love, or any close emotional relationship giving someone protection against the allure, but I'm not sure I'd buy it myself, and I doubt she'll stick around if I'm that obvious about decrying their relationship.

"Look, I'm sure Fleur is just stressed about the tasks and the ball coming up. I imagine it takes a lot of self-control to reign in an ability like that; haven't you noticed that whenever she's not surrounded by guys, she always has that cold aloof look on her? It's probably just all getting to her." I glance over my shoulder at the crowd dispersing from the Ravenclaw table. "All the attention is probably just making it worse"

."Maybe, I suppose…I just….I can't believe he did that in front of the great hall!" Her face turns bright red.

"Look." I gather some of my self-control together. "You're the one he's going to the ball with. Which is entirely his luck, isn't it? After all, if you didn't care so much about him," she misses the flinch I made, "you would be going with Krum, right?" she nods. "Just remember, he is the lucky one, ok?"

"I…yeah, I guess so. Did you ever give him those robes by the way?"

I…Did I? I think they're still torn up in their bag in my trunk.

"I'll leave them on his bed later. You able to do any alterations they need? They'll probably need stitching a little." A lot.

"Yes, I was looking at a book about household charms a few days ago, and…"

It's getting hard to remember that I'm pissed off with her lately. The redheaded reminder to replace my necklace is coming back though, so her chatter gradually slows to nothing, as her audience fades from her consciousness.

* * *

A long time ago, someone, in Hogwarts, must have had a real passion for the creation of magical items.

The Room of Requirements is an amazing place, capable of creating almost anything at but a request, but its one downside is that anything created by the room, has to stay in the room. Thankfully it also seems to be able to gather things from the castle itself, which is why I find myself looking at the etched and pitted chisels I used to get my basilisk fang.

A Fang I handled with my bare skin.

In the comedy of errors that seems to be the story of my mortality, it was only after I obtained it that I found a book in the room, detailing how best to prepare organic materials for crafting into things, and that basilisk fangs tend to be lethal to the touch.

So, not for my apparent immunity to the venom, I would be dead by now. Chalk one up for the Boy-Who-Still-Lives, I guess.

Using room-generated tools to do the carving is a painstaking task, as the fang tends to corrode the magic and cause the tools to fade away after a short time after which I have to summon yet more tools. While it leaves me confident that it'll end up being an effective weapon, I have to wonder if all of this is a good idea. I'm in enough danger with the tournament without me killing myself simply because I rush into something.

There are few master enchanters for a reason after all.

Then again, what can you really add to a blade that can kill in one strike? A blade that can cut through magical defences with ease?

Sighing, I put down the sharpened fang. The channel that used to exist to pump venom into the monster's prey is a weakness now, one which might cause the whole thing to shatter, and a problem I can't solve right now. Plenty of time for me to figure it out before the third task though.

Instead, I have a second project to work on. I can't really take the most toxic substance known to wizardkind into a populated lake after all.

The spike of dragonbone that once supported part of the horntail's wings is about nine feet long, and after a bit of time sharpening the end, a very lethal looking spear. Up to around a tenth of the way up its length is where I reassume my work, slowly carving runes of strength, aim, and a somewhat archaic cluster for piercing that I found were used in ancient Greece. While, for the most part, there are several most effective versions that have been used since, this one actually drags the spear through the air towards its target.

Take out the alignment representing air, replace it with water…

It'll be weeks before it's complete, so all I need to do if figure out how I'm going to breathe, and who I'll be rescuing. Damned yule ball.

* * *

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Snow Crunches underfoot as I continue my repetitions, my dance.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

The moon lends it's ethereal light to the scene, floating snowflakes waltzing the tune of the night's silence.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

A charmed cloak softens the cold's bite to nothing, as the sword rests between my hands..

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Swing. Block. Thrust.

Could I have picked a better night than this? Relaxing, I return to the base of the tree, replacing my weapon in its makeshift snakeskin scabbard. Faintly, I can hear the slow sounds of a waltz drifting down from the castle, down to my refuge near the lake.

McGonagall did say I would have to dance after all.

Did I chicken out? Part of me wishes to be up there, wearing my bottle-green robes, enjoying and celebrating Christmas with the others, perhaps dancing with an attractive girl who can look beyond the rumours, and just spend time enthralled in the beats of the music.

Towards the end, I did get a few offers; even as a nameless student I could have gone and enjoyed myself, but…what would I have missed?

Just like that night, half a year ago, the moon is dancing over the lake's surface. Thin Ice rings it, causing the castle's grounds to fade smoothly from ethereal white to the lake's inky darkness. With the snow, the stars, the feeling of utter _peace_ is almost overwhelming, the feeling of contentment.

And a small part of me recognises that one of loneliness.

Could things have been different? Had I not…

I know how all this came to be. I've had too much time to think, to overanalyse, and to not recognise my fault in all this. I became…obsessive. I changed. For the better? Undoubtedly. But it meant I grew up, I stopped thinking like a child, I stopped letting life's currents drag me from one encounter to the next. I learned. I improved myself.

For myself, for her.

Reflexively gripping the sword's hilt, I take a deep breath. And another.

Was I really so different that I pushed them away? My two friends, my _closest_ friends, my only friends…if I hadn't watched, if I hadn't paid attention, if I hadn't realised? If I hadn't said those things at the lake, if maybe we'd saved Sirius together, as friends, instead of…what do you become after that?

I stand up again, drawing my blade, this time pushing a little power into it.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

The rose-coloured flame flicks around with my movements, warming my hands.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

If I hadn't grown up, if I had continued to just let life take me where it will…

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

…Maybe I would be in that hall right now.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Or maybe I would still be out here.

Block. Slash. Stab.

But would I still be alone?

Block. Slash. Stab.

No, I wouldn't be.

Block. Slash. Stab.

I'd have shared a night like this with someone.

Block. Slash. Stab.

Pouring more power into the blade, I shift my stance again, the now dark red flames now trailing the blade, lashing down at the ground.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

Slash. Slash. Thrust.

I know I need to push past this, I need to let go of her, but part of me can't. Part of me doesn't see the betrayals, the abandonment, the lies, the half-truths, the rumours. The flame turns indigo, snow retreats from where I stand, and my eyes just focus on the blade.

I need to let it go.

_**"You rotten bastard! How could you do this to me?"**_

A/N: Cliffhanger! Kinda. Sorry?_**  
**_


End file.
